from the home front.
May. 4th, 2003 12:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluelovesorangeSometimes I want to hit people with sticks.
I'm not proud of this, but it has to be said.
Finally - after the past two days where it seemed like I was emerging from a very dark cave of wild woolliness - my metaphorical hangover has stopped.
The rain has stopped as well - for a little while it seemed like we would be needing bags and gathering up two of every animal, but it stopped mid afternoon yesterday, and the world seems brighter and shinier. Possibly because I missed the sun.
Friday - I drove to LA under my own power, in my new car, with M navigating the defroster and audio controls, and we didn't get into any accidents, lost in a Byzantium maze of terror, or blow up on the highway.
These are all very good things. As my past history with cars tend to be: 1)If I am in a car, especially if I'm driving, there will be the inevitable song and dance spectacular about Getting Lost. I'm very Zen about it now. 2) The irrational fear that the car will blow up on a freeway.
My old car had the tendency to stop at distressing intervals, partly because it was elderly, and partly because I was new and stupid at maintaining the car - so it was always chancy to take it on long trips on the freeways, for fear of it ...well, exploding. In its last stages of life, it was getting around the corners of surface streets with plodding difficulty. A wake has been carried out, and currently it's on my lawn as the world's ugliest lawn ornament. (Damn you street sweepers! Damn you to heck!)
But despite the weather situation (pouring down like Noah upset a large water pitcher) and the darkness (hello, night) M and I arrived in LA in one piece. I met up with Thayne, we had a nice chat, and then M and I took the treacherous freeways to go cross town to the Knitting Factory. We were running late (the show was scheduled at 11:00) due to rain traffic and the unifying AssHole theory. Which is: Put a pack of men with severe testerone poisoning in an SUV roughly the size of a barn, and then have them cut into the lane one has been trying to merge into WITH THE TURN SIGNAL CLEARLY ON FOR FIVE MINUTES, and then have them look appalled at one's clear refusal of their SUV dominance. Well fuck you, pal.
Just because you have the money to buy yourself an urban assault vehicle and drive it on the mean streets of Hollywood, does not mean you have God Entitlement to cut off people, specifically ME and mine, when we are running late. M flipped him off. I seethed.
The Asshole Theory continued in affect when I found parking near the Kodak Theatre, and due to the alarming space between my car and the ticket-meter, I had to open my door and actually get out to take the ticket. All to the snickers of the guys (yes, men, again.) behind us. Then, when I got back behind the wheel, my car wouldn't start. Brief second of panic, and then the honking and dickcall started again. M leaned out of her window and told them all to do something they clearly need to do more of, to get out all that aggression, and this time, I flipped them off. We parked in sullen dignity. The nelsons sped past us, laughing all the way. (Nelson: that kid on the Simpsons who goes, Hahaha as if his last brain cell depended valiantly on the sound of his voice to keep him alive.)
Then because we were both rattled, we forgot to take our umbrellas with us, therefore spending a frigid amount of time in the rain, navigating through the Mall of Hell to get to the Knitting Factory. "Squelchy" is not a good feeling to have when going into a event, especially when you're supposed to be happy and excited about the event. By that point of the night, I was wishing various ailments and horrors upon the Assholes and trying not to steam up the club. I'd like to think that at least a dozen people in Hollywood that night simultaneously went bald and impotent. And wore funny shoes.
Yes, I'm bitter. And seething in bad karma, but I try not to make a habit of it.
Spotted![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agentotter among the melee and waved excitedly at her while trying to maintain the usual LA Club demeanor: Aloof and Bored, then realized I couldn't hack it with a straight face. Settled for Damp and Amused and chatted with M about how people dressed up. Quite a lot of cute boys with ties and hair fringing their face - but not as if I had wandered into an Interpol concert. Their beautiful (TM) girlfriends were there as well, striding about in high heels and platforms and boob shirts of doom. There was a lot of glitter, which made me happy. I wondered how many of them were actually comfortable.
The gig started late (yay for us!) and we all poured into the AlteraKnit Lounge (ha ha cute). There aren't enough accurate words to describe a Common Rotation gig, nevermind the style of their music, but I'll attempt to say: of all the CR gigs I've gone to, it's always been an event in the sense that you're going to the house of a best friend's acquaintance - just enough comfortableness yet awe at the decorating scheme or the food. They're fun, they're superb showmen, and there's enough irreverence and musical ability so you get that hey, these guys are *musicians* and not wannabe rock stars. They're above all that. They're also funny and the comraderie between Eric and Adam (and Ken and Mike) is entertaining to watch. New to me were: Eric's guitar with CUT THROAT inlaid on the body, the new electric guitarist Rick. Adam wore glasses.
That's an aside, but hey.
The usual things that plague me at concert events (Somebody's Tall Boyfriend right in front of me, so I see a light show and the back of a neck) the (Permeating Smell of Onion Sweat)and (drunk and disorderly and I'm not responsible for any sudden lack of limbs) did not happen...in total at the CR union maid event. No tall boyfriend. No permeating smell of onion sweat. Instead, I was basking in the heady scent of Someone's Majorly Strong Aftershave and trying not to cry at the fumes. There was a guy who kept on heckling the band, especially every time Eric spoke but the band soldiered on with good grace and ignored him. He stopped being amusing after the first 'ALRIGHTYAYOUTELLHIMERICYEAAAAAAHHHHWOOOOHOOOOO'. After his repeated wooing attempts failed, he stood in a corner and tried to dance. Much eyedamage and horror ensued: Loud xander-variety style of shirt, sweaty, unfortunate facial hair - this man can not be saved. But could I kick him? Please?
As I'm more of a casual CR fan (I don't know all their songs by name, and can only pick out choruses on others) I couldn't tell you the songs in the set list - but Adam assured us that a few of them were currently nameless masterpieces in the works, I felt better. They did a cover of (I can't recall...Crowded House? what? Beuller?), Union Maid, Bombs over Baghdad, and closed the show with Minnesota, then a special acoustic offering in the middle of the crowd. It was a fantastic show, and aside from the stupid heckler, I had a brilliant time. M bought their new album The Big Fear, I chatted with L for a while, and because it apparently was AssHole Night, M got grabbed at by the heckler (Asshole grabbed her boob. Can you fucking believe some people?) we had a really great CR experience to add to our books.
I drove back to M's house and crashed there for the morning (it was 2:35 or so when we arrived) and drove back home at 6:50 a.m.
Saturday was spent in a complete fugue state - I read more of Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (next: Margaret Atwood's short stories, Shirley Jackons' short stories, Delillo's the Body Artist), took a little nap....and ended waking up at six o clock p.m., with the book across my lap and very disoriented.
Spent the rest of the evening collecting poems for my final exam, and ..... reading Alias spoilers.
Gah, have no control AT ALL. Though, to be honest, they weren't terribly in depth spoilers, but I read the ones related to Sark and well...
and in white, because I'm really considerate that way. HOLY CRAP, I'VE BEEN JJ-ed! See, not as fun as saying I've been "Jossed!", but what is, really? I'm reserving total judgment for when I actually see the finale, because hey, maybe it works out better on screen than it does on paper, but...now, Tigers and Kings has totally gone AU, and I have to wrap my head around the 'fact' that Sark's connection to Sydney is not of blood, but...Not!Francie is his girlfriend. Or to be more precise: The clone is not Anna Espinosa, but another spy in the Christmas Project that gave us Syd, and she's Sark's girlfriend. I've conveniently forgotten her name, except that it starts with A.
GAAAAAAAAAH. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH.
Other than the small grudging details I will allow like: So that's why not!francie is always being contacted by Sark, not only because well he's Sloane's pawn, but the idea that either Sark or his girlfriend volunteered her for this job. Which just brings up the question why are they working with Sloane anyway?
So that's why Not!Francie has hypno!sex with Will, and not the real thing. Hey, if Sark was my boyfriend (and in my 'you have a varied and interesting ..uh..fantasy life' he is MY NEFARIOUS AND EVIL BOYFRIEND) I wouldn't cheat on him with Will either, damn the mission!
But...I'm still annoyed. And slightly disappointed.
this was not the added layer to Sark's character I was expecting, that's for certain.
In other news: I dreamed I was Lane last night, and I was with Dave in a bathroom. He had mass quantities of shaving cream on his face, and I was wiping it off with a towel. No, I have no idea what that means either.
I'm not proud of this, but it has to be said.
Finally - after the past two days where it seemed like I was emerging from a very dark cave of wild woolliness - my metaphorical hangover has stopped.
The rain has stopped as well - for a little while it seemed like we would be needing bags and gathering up two of every animal, but it stopped mid afternoon yesterday, and the world seems brighter and shinier. Possibly because I missed the sun.
Friday - I drove to LA under my own power, in my new car, with M navigating the defroster and audio controls, and we didn't get into any accidents, lost in a Byzantium maze of terror, or blow up on the highway.
These are all very good things. As my past history with cars tend to be: 1)If I am in a car, especially if I'm driving, there will be the inevitable song and dance spectacular about Getting Lost. I'm very Zen about it now. 2) The irrational fear that the car will blow up on a freeway.
My old car had the tendency to stop at distressing intervals, partly because it was elderly, and partly because I was new and stupid at maintaining the car - so it was always chancy to take it on long trips on the freeways, for fear of it ...well, exploding. In its last stages of life, it was getting around the corners of surface streets with plodding difficulty. A wake has been carried out, and currently it's on my lawn as the world's ugliest lawn ornament. (Damn you street sweepers! Damn you to heck!)
But despite the weather situation (pouring down like Noah upset a large water pitcher) and the darkness (hello, night) M and I arrived in LA in one piece. I met up with Thayne, we had a nice chat, and then M and I took the treacherous freeways to go cross town to the Knitting Factory. We were running late (the show was scheduled at 11:00) due to rain traffic and the unifying AssHole theory. Which is: Put a pack of men with severe testerone poisoning in an SUV roughly the size of a barn, and then have them cut into the lane one has been trying to merge into WITH THE TURN SIGNAL CLEARLY ON FOR FIVE MINUTES, and then have them look appalled at one's clear refusal of their SUV dominance. Well fuck you, pal.
Just because you have the money to buy yourself an urban assault vehicle and drive it on the mean streets of Hollywood, does not mean you have God Entitlement to cut off people, specifically ME and mine, when we are running late. M flipped him off. I seethed.
The Asshole Theory continued in affect when I found parking near the Kodak Theatre, and due to the alarming space between my car and the ticket-meter, I had to open my door and actually get out to take the ticket. All to the snickers of the guys (yes, men, again.) behind us. Then, when I got back behind the wheel, my car wouldn't start. Brief second of panic, and then the honking and dickcall started again. M leaned out of her window and told them all to do something they clearly need to do more of, to get out all that aggression, and this time, I flipped them off. We parked in sullen dignity. The nelsons sped past us, laughing all the way. (Nelson: that kid on the Simpsons who goes, Hahaha as if his last brain cell depended valiantly on the sound of his voice to keep him alive.)
Then because we were both rattled, we forgot to take our umbrellas with us, therefore spending a frigid amount of time in the rain, navigating through the Mall of Hell to get to the Knitting Factory. "Squelchy" is not a good feeling to have when going into a event, especially when you're supposed to be happy and excited about the event. By that point of the night, I was wishing various ailments and horrors upon the Assholes and trying not to steam up the club. I'd like to think that at least a dozen people in Hollywood that night simultaneously went bald and impotent. And wore funny shoes.
Yes, I'm bitter. And seething in bad karma, but I try not to make a habit of it.
Spotted
agentotter among the melee and waved excitedly at her while trying to maintain the usual LA Club demeanor: Aloof and Bored, then realized I couldn't hack it with a straight face. Settled for Damp and Amused and chatted with M about how people dressed up. Quite a lot of cute boys with ties and hair fringing their face - but not as if I had wandered into an Interpol concert. Their beautiful (TM) girlfriends were there as well, striding about in high heels and platforms and boob shirts of doom. There was a lot of glitter, which made me happy. I wondered how many of them were actually comfortable.The gig started late (yay for us!) and we all poured into the AlteraKnit Lounge (ha ha cute). There aren't enough accurate words to describe a Common Rotation gig, nevermind the style of their music, but I'll attempt to say: of all the CR gigs I've gone to, it's always been an event in the sense that you're going to the house of a best friend's acquaintance - just enough comfortableness yet awe at the decorating scheme or the food. They're fun, they're superb showmen, and there's enough irreverence and musical ability so you get that hey, these guys are *musicians* and not wannabe rock stars. They're above all that. They're also funny and the comraderie between Eric and Adam (and Ken and Mike) is entertaining to watch. New to me were: Eric's guitar with CUT THROAT inlaid on the body, the new electric guitarist Rick. Adam wore glasses.
That's an aside, but hey.
The usual things that plague me at concert events (Somebody's Tall Boyfriend right in front of me, so I see a light show and the back of a neck) the (Permeating Smell of Onion Sweat)and (drunk and disorderly and I'm not responsible for any sudden lack of limbs) did not happen...in total at the CR union maid event. No tall boyfriend. No permeating smell of onion sweat. Instead, I was basking in the heady scent of Someone's Majorly Strong Aftershave and trying not to cry at the fumes. There was a guy who kept on heckling the band, especially every time Eric spoke but the band soldiered on with good grace and ignored him. He stopped being amusing after the first 'ALRIGHTYAYOUTELLHIMERICYEAAAAAAHHHHWOOOOHOOOOO'. After his repeated wooing attempts failed, he stood in a corner and tried to dance. Much eyedamage and horror ensued: Loud xander-variety style of shirt, sweaty, unfortunate facial hair - this man can not be saved. But could I kick him? Please?
As I'm more of a casual CR fan (I don't know all their songs by name, and can only pick out choruses on others) I couldn't tell you the songs in the set list - but Adam assured us that a few of them were currently nameless masterpieces in the works, I felt better. They did a cover of (I can't recall...Crowded House? what? Beuller?), Union Maid, Bombs over Baghdad, and closed the show with Minnesota, then a special acoustic offering in the middle of the crowd. It was a fantastic show, and aside from the stupid heckler, I had a brilliant time. M bought their new album The Big Fear, I chatted with L for a while, and because it apparently was AssHole Night, M got grabbed at by the heckler (Asshole grabbed her boob. Can you fucking believe some people?) we had a really great CR experience to add to our books.
I drove back to M's house and crashed there for the morning (it was 2:35 or so when we arrived) and drove back home at 6:50 a.m.
Saturday was spent in a complete fugue state - I read more of Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (next: Margaret Atwood's short stories, Shirley Jackons' short stories, Delillo's the Body Artist), took a little nap....and ended waking up at six o clock p.m., with the book across my lap and very disoriented.
Spent the rest of the evening collecting poems for my final exam, and ..... reading Alias spoilers.
Gah, have no control AT ALL. Though, to be honest, they weren't terribly in depth spoilers, but I read the ones related to Sark and well...
and in white, because I'm really considerate that way. HOLY CRAP, I'VE BEEN JJ-ed! See, not as fun as saying I've been "Jossed!", but what is, really? I'm reserving total judgment for when I actually see the finale, because hey, maybe it works out better on screen than it does on paper, but...now, Tigers and Kings has totally gone AU, and I have to wrap my head around the 'fact' that Sark's connection to Sydney is not of blood, but...Not!Francie is his girlfriend. Or to be more precise: The clone is not Anna Espinosa, but another spy in the Christmas Project that gave us Syd, and she's Sark's girlfriend. I've conveniently forgotten her name, except that it starts with A.
GAAAAAAAAAH. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH.
Other than the small grudging details I will allow like: So that's why not!francie is always being contacted by Sark, not only because well he's Sloane's pawn, but the idea that either Sark or his girlfriend volunteered her for this job. Which just brings up the question why are they working with Sloane anyway?
So that's why Not!Francie has hypno!sex with Will, and not the real thing. Hey, if Sark was my boyfriend (and in my 'you have a varied and interesting ..uh..fantasy life' he is MY NEFARIOUS AND EVIL BOYFRIEND) I wouldn't cheat on him with Will either, damn the mission!
But...I'm still annoyed. And slightly disappointed.
this was not the added layer to Sark's character I was expecting, that's for certain.
In other news: I dreamed I was Lane last night, and I was with Dave in a bathroom. He had mass quantities of shaving cream on his face, and I was wiping it off with a towel. No, I have no idea what that means either.
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no subject
Date: 2003-05-04 01:43 pm (UTC)Anyhow, if you're interested, I took some pictures... only ever one roll, but I always have fun with that one:
http://www.efn.org/~brideb/Deb/commonro5.html
punish her! punish her!
Date: 2003-05-04 01:56 pm (UTC)and thanks for the pics!